‘And how long would you be away?’
‘Ten days at the most. Can you do anything?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Schneider nodded. ‘One can change the shape of the face by wearing cheek pads in the mouth and all that sort of thing, but I don’t think it’s necessary for you. You don’t carry a lot of weight, my friend, not much flesh on your bones.’
‘All down to bad living,’ Devlin said.
Schneider ignored the joke. ‘Your hair _ dark and wavy and you wear it long. I think the key is what I do to the hair. What role do you intend to play?’
‘A priest. Ex-Army chaplain. Invalided out.’
‘Yes, the hair.’ Schneider draped a sheet about his shoulders and reached for a pair of scissors.
By the time he was finished, Devlin’s hair was cropped close to the skull.
‘Jesus, is that me?’
‘That’s only a start. Let’s have you over the basin.’ Schneider washed the hair then rubbed some chemical in. ‘I’ve worked with the best actors. Marlene Dietrich before she cleared out. Now she had marvellous hair. Oh, and there was Conrad Veidt. What a wonderful actor. Chased out by these Nazi bastards and he ends up, so I’m told, playing Nazi bastards in Hollywood.’
‘A strange old life.’ Devlin kept his eyes closed and let him get on with it.
He hardly recognized the face that stared out at him. The close-cropped hair was quite grey now, accentuating the cheekbones, putting ten or twelve years on his age.
That’s bloody marvellous.’
‘One more touch.’ Schneider rummaged in his make-up case, took out several pairs of spectacles and examined them. ‘Yes, these, I think. Clear glass, naturally.’ He placed a pair of steel-rimmed glasses on Devlin’s nose and adjusted them. ‘Yes, excellent. I’m pleased with myself.’
‘God help me, but I look like Himmler,’ Devlin said. ‘Will it last, the hair, I mean?’
‘A fortnight and you said you’d be away ten days at the most.’ Schneider produced a small plastic bottle. ‘A rinse with this would keep things going, but not for long.’
‘No,’ Devlin told him. ‘I said ten days and I meant it. It’s all one in the end anyway. Any longer and I’ll be dead.’
‘Astonishing!’ Schellenberg said.
‘I’m glad you think so,’ Devlin told him. ‘So let’s have the right photos taken. I want to get on with it.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘I want to go as soon as possible. Tomorrow or the day after.’
Schellenberg looked at him gravely. ‘You’re sure about this?’
‘There’s nothing else to hang about for now that your friend at UFA has given me a new face. We have the set-up at Chernay, Asa and the Lysander. That leaves us with three uncertainties. My IRA friend, Michael Ryan, the Shaws and the Priory.’
‘True,’ Schellenberg said. ‘No matter what the situation at the Priory, if your friend Ryan is not available you would be presented with real difficulty. The same with the Shaws.’
Devlin said, ‘Without the Shaws it would be an impossibility so the sooner I get there, the sooner we know.’
‘Right,’ Schellenberg said briskly, and rang for Use Huber who came in. ‘Papers for Mr Devlin from the forgery department.’
‘They’ll need photos of the new me,’ Devlin told her.
‘But Mr Devlin, the British identity card is what you need. A ration book for certain items of food, clothing coupons, driving licence. None of these require a photo.’
‘That’s a pity,’ Devlin told her. ‘If you’re being checked out by someone the fact that they can compare you with a photo is so satisfying that you’re on your way before you know it.’
‘Have you decided on your name and circumstances yet?’ Schellenberg asked.
‘As I’ve often said, the best kind of lie is the one that sticks closest to the truth,’ Devlin said. ‘No sense in trying to sound completely English. Even the great Devlin wouldn’t get away with that. So I’m an Ulster-man.’ He turned to Use. ‘Are you getting this?’
‘Every word.’
‘Cordon. Now there’s a name I’ve always liked. My first girlfriend was a Conlon. And my old uncle, the priest in Belfast I lived with as a boy. He was a Henry, though everyone called him Harry.’